He looked away, surveying the room for a chair that promised the least discomfort. “Fine,” he said at last, without commitment. “How are you?”
“We’ve got this new youth worker, really neat young woman, really qualified, and she’s just doing amazing things with the youth group. She’s planning an inner city exposure trip. It’s scaring the hell out of them, but I think it’ll be a real eye-opener.”
“Hm,” Father David replied.
He had chosen his chair, a hard-back wooden stacking chair. Randomly he reached for a book from the nearby bookshelves and turned it over in his hand. It was called, When the Church is Revolting. From what he could tell by the cover, it was some sort of call to arms, a challenge to the church to become more revolutionary, to overturn the tables of the moneychangers, to harangue the power brokers. It offered strategies for church-based social change, and you could send away for a booklet of Peace and Justice Songs for use in inter-generational worship. He placed the book back on the shelf and sat down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting.
Barbara was still looking at him: It appeared she was preparing to say something, but at that moment two more clergy walked through the door.
One was Bob, fifty-ish and bear-like, with a greying beard. He gave Barbara a hug. They had known each other in seminary. If he was afraid of her you couldn’t see it, though his affectionate greeting might just be a calculated defence. The other was Charles, the new young incumbent of the Chinese congregation, who slipped nervously past them both to settle himself quickly into a plush armchair in the corner. No one would be able to hug him from there. He smiled formally at Father David, who nodded politely in return.
The rest arrived in small clumps, milling awkwardly in the doorway, pouring themselves coffee as they exchanged greetings with one another. They lingered there as long as they could, until a new clump arrived, forcing them deeper into the room. They had no choice then but to commit themselves to one of the chairs or couches and lower themselves into the dark folds of overstuffed upholstery, knowing they would not be getting up again without a graceless struggle. There they sat like captive chimpanzees, leaning forward, trying not to be swallowed whole, their arms dangling in front of them. Still, their faces were set to convey a positive attitude as they cast furtive glances around the room.
Today would be a day for “Caring and Sharing,” Barbara announced when they were all settled. It would be a chance to check in with one another, she explained (though everyone already knew exactly what it meant), and she hoped they would all be open to do that. The bishop himself had commended the process, she said; he had even recommended it to some of the other deaneries.
It was interesting, Father David thought, that for someone who regarded herself as a renegade, someone who routinely and publicly bit the head off any authority figure who got in her way, Dean Barbara so frequently drew upon her closer association with the bishop to lend weight and credibility to her own plans. If anyone didn’t like the thought of opening up to one another in their “caring and sharing,” they had to contend not only with Barbara, which would have been enough, but also with the bishop.
So they began to go around the circle, answering her Question for the Day, which was, on this occasion, “What gives you life in your ministry?” Barbara offered to go first herself, to break the ice.
“For me,” she said with practised eloquence, “it’s seeing Christ through the brokenness.”
Yes, of course, Father David thought. She would have prepared for this. Whatever she did, she always made sure she was the cleverest, the one with the most profound insight, the one who was wisest. It was certain, for instance, that no one would prove wiser than she was today, and that, if they tried, they could expect her — lovingly, of course — to point out some flaw in their reasoning, or some inconsistency with their actual lived experience. No doubt about it, she was a master at spiritual one-upmanship! Or was that now one-up-personship?
As Barbara went on to describe in heart-rending detail a recent pastoral conversation with someone who had been abused as a child, Father David’s mind wandered. He surveyed the room. If haberdashery were any measure of their professionalism, they were certainly a motley crew. Father David’s was the only black clerical shirt among them; he was the only one in black, period. Barbara wore a white clerical shirt with a Roman collar, the kind fitted for women, with darts sewn into the sides. There were only two other clerical shirts in the room — Charles, the Chinese priest, in gray, and Brewster in, of all things, a casual short-sleeved brown shirt with a plastic tabbed collar.
Now what was the sense in that, Father David wondered. What was the point of wearing clerical garb at all if it took on a fashion palate of stylish colours and tones? If it was brown today — which, of course, was already yesterday’s colour — then why not pink tomorrow, or green, or why not Hawaiian with pictures of palm trees and surging waves? It was a dangerous United Church influence, he thought, shaking his head, like wearing a stole to match the carpet rather than the liturgical season; it diluted the notion of priesthood.
The point of being a priest at all was that the personality did not interfere with the transmission of God’s grace. While priests brought distinctive personalities and distinctive gifts to their ministry, theirs was a ministry of function, not of personal charisma, like the Pentecostals. Any priest should be interchangeable with any other. Unless, of course, they began to pander to passing fads and personal fashion statements. Then, for all the dignity they imparted to the role, they might just as well go to work in plaid shirts and bib overalls.
Which was pretty much what bear-hug Bob was wearing, Father David realized, gazing round the room. With his blue jeans, his casual shoes, and his checked shirt open at the neck, just what was he trying to be? A hip woodsman? An ageing hippy? Father David was sure that counselling sessions with “Father Bob” would be an enlightening business, not to say entertaining. Did he darken the room and light a few candles? Did he burn incense or ring little bells? Did he make young couples — who only wanted to get married — join hands with him and sing a chanted mantra before getting down to business? He could not stifle a small grin at the thought.
“David, is there something funny about any of this?”
He looked up, startled. Barbara was bearing down on him from across the room. “No, of course not,” he answered. “I was thinking about something else. Sorry.”
A charged silence hung in the air. Father David took in the group with a glance. No one was making eye contact. Only Barbara was looking at him, looking directly at him.
“Well,” she said, breaking the spell. “I think that’s all I want to share. David, perhaps you’d like to go next.”
“All right,” he said, recovering his composure, “though I thought you wanted us to go round the circle. But sure, I’ll go.” He had to think for a moment what the question was. “What gives life to our ministry? Was that the question?”
“What gives life to your ministry, yes,” Barbara nodded.
“Well, for me, it would be the liturgy. The liturgy gives me life.”
“What is it about the liturgy?” Barbara posed, leaning forward now, trying to sound pastoral, but coming off more like a pissed-off talk show host.
Damn, Father David thought. Why can’t she ever just let something be? He didn’t want to open up to this group. He frowned, but pressed on.
“Well, it’s the dignity of it, the orderliness of it. It’s bigger than the one who happens to be presiding. It’s bigger than all of us. And we get swept up into that — into God, in fact, who is loving and, well, orderly. It’s like, for this brief moment, we get a glimpse of heaven.”
Father